


The Requirements of a First Date

by Sixthlight



Series: A Few Years Later [3]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: First Dates, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Rugby made them do it, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a date spontaneously happens, things spontaneously catch on fire, and somehow no magic is involved in either instance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Requirements of a First Date

**Author's Note:**

> In the same general future but, obviously, a different timeline to Good Grammar and Traditional Decorations. I couldn't make up my mind about which get-together scenario I preferred, so have all three and pick your favourite! 
> 
> Please note this story contains an instance of implied homophobia/harassment.

Thomas was supervising Matthew and Annie’s werelight practice when Peter appeared in the door of the lab. Over in another corner of the lab, Abigail was levitating apples, safety goggles and hooded raincoat on after an unfortunate incident last week that had left her picking apple seeds and pulp out of her tight curls for _hours_ , according to her mutters at supper. Annie, Matthew, and Malini, all much newer to magic as an everyday concept, had looked distinctly nervous; Peter had shrugged and pointed out that safety equipment existed for a reason.

“Yeah, but I thought that was just because you can make any _forma_ into an explosion,” Abigail had said sullenly.

“That is _totally_ untrue,” Peter had retorted.

“Indeed,” Thomas had agreed. “It can’t be more than seventy percent of them at most.”

“But _why_?” Malini had asked. “Sir.”

“Natural talent.” Peter had grinned cheerfully. “And lots and lots of practice.”

Actually, Peter’s control was much, much better than that these days, but he did seem to derive a great deal of enjoyment from playing the loose cannon to Thomas’s restrained chief inspector, at least in the eyes of the new apprentices. Thomas wondered how long that image would last once they realised that of the two of them, it was Peter who got the most insistent about the safety equipment. Thomas was still of the opinion that it encouraged bad habits, personally.

Right now Peter was lurking in the doorway in the way that suggested he wanted a word, but not urgently, so Thomas took the time to inspect the werelights in front of him, and suggest improvements, before heading for the door.

“How’re they doing this morning?” Peter asked quietly.

“They’re both very diligent – all of them are,” said Thomas. “Which is the only thing that’s making it work, having four of them.”

Peter smiled wryly. “Well, if we’d stuck to one-on-one, we’d be up to about five active wizards around the time I retire. Assuming they all, you know…”

 _Survived,_ perhaps he meant, or _stayed,_ or _stuck with it._ That had been a point of debate for some months, and Thomas had quite come around to Peter’s opinion on the topic or there wouldn’t _be_ four of them, so he let it pass. “Did you leave Malini at Belgravia?”

“Yep,” said Peter. “There were a few other things from the scene for her to look at – some of them _might_ have _vestigia_ and it’ll be good practice either way. I would have stuck around but Guleed’s come down all nervous about her first shout as DI. She looked like she was about to throw up or hit me every time the word “magic” crossed my lips, so I figured I’d let Mal practice inter-unit diplomacy without me lurking over her shoulder. They all know me over there, it’s about time they started getting to know our new minions.”

“You can’t call them minions, Peter,” said Thomas for what felt like the fiftieth time, but it was an important point. After all, Peter was the one who was so often insistent upon the specifics of language. If not, sadly, grammar.

“I can’t call them minions _to their faces_ ,” Peter said, and looked guiltily through the doorway to make sure none of the minions – _apprentices_ – could hear him. When Thomas had met Peter, his face had reflected almost all his thoughts; he would have said it still did, but he had observed that now it was only true when Peter was in company he trusted. That Peter’s face was always an open book to him he considered a compliment of the highest degree.

“Anyway,” Peter went on, “that wasn’t actually what I came up to ask. Barring actual emergencies cropping up – although, again, I am now not the first person who’s going to get called, did I mention how much I’m enjoying that? – how would you feel about rugby tonight?”

“I was planning on watching the game in the coach house, if that’s what you were asking,” Thomas replied. A Six Nations match at Twickenham, England versus France; probably a slow grinder but there was some paperwork he needed to catch up on anyway, and it would make it mildly less tedious.

Peter gave that ridiculous grin of his, and held up something; a pair of tickets, Thomas saw with surprise. “Nope; these were going round Belgravia like a hot potato and I spoke up for them. Someone had to cancel because of this case and no-one else there had the time, or the interest. Thought of you right away.”

“Oh, I see. Very thoughtful of you.” Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He knew Peter had no particular interest in rugby for its own sake, which made the outing entirely for Thomas’s own benefit, unless…Peter wasn’t _acting_ like he was proposing some sort of, well, _date_ , but on the face of it –

“That sounds lovely,” Thomas heard himself saying, to his own astonishment. Well, at minimum he had plausible deniability, and it had been a long time since he’d gone to a live match. “The game starts at seven, doesn’t it? We should probably get dinner on the way.”

For some reason this seemed to take Peter aback. “I – um, yeah, sure. Yeah, definitely! Bev was telling me some really good things about this new Ethiopian place down that way, if you’re in the mood for it.” He smiled again, but it had a thoughtful edge to it. Thomas wondered precisely what he’d gotten himself into.

But the propriety of the whole thing aside, the range of cuisines available in modern London was certainly one of the great advantages of this new century, to Thomas’s mind, and he was very much in the mood for it. Molly had spent the last month reliving the more traditional aspects of her cooking, perhaps inspired by new inhabitants in the Folly, and he wouldn’t mind a change. “Very well, then. Unless, of course, some new aspect of this case emerges between then and now.”

Peter made a face, apparently restored to his good humour. “Don’t jinx it, si– uh - it didn’t sound likely when I left Belgravia. Unless they turn up an extra corpse somewhere…fingers crossed they don’t.”

 

 _I won’t break if you use my first name,_ Thomas wanted to say, and didn’t, principally because it might break _Peter_ if he did. Perhaps – another time. He had a horrible feeling he might have already mucked things up enough for one morning.

They agreed on a time to leave. Peter went off to dig up some of their old case files – the current murder was reminding him of something, but he didn’t want to say what it was until he’d consulted the notes – and Thomas returned to the lab, where Abigail was wiping apple off her safety goggles with a sigh and Annie was holding her hand under a running tap while Matthew peered at it doubtfully.

“It doesn’t look bad,” she was saying as Thomas approached, her Glaswegian accent emphasising the _look_. “First-degree at worst. Oh, hello, sir. I just had a wee bit of excitement with my werelight.”

“I didn’t know you _could_ get them that hot,” said Matt beside her, with some caution.

“ _Lux_ is the base _forma_ for producing both light and heat,” Thomas told them, leaning over to inspect the injured hand. “Which is why you must always keep it very specific, depending upon the use to which you are putting it. And why we work with sinks. That doesn’t look too bad; keep it under there for another minute or two and then keep going. Constable Blake, you may as well resume practice.”

“Yessir,” said Matt, and turned his hand over. “ _Lux_.”

“Is Mal back?” asked Annie, her hand still under the tap. “Is this a Falcon case – I mean, is it our shout?”

“Constable Choudhury is still at Belgravia with the Murder Team, but it appears so,” Thomas said, “so we’ll all be busier for the next few days, I expect.”

He could hardly say his mind was on that right now, though; he was more concerned with what Peter was up to. Or if not – whether he’d upset him.

*

Insofar as Thomas had determined by the time they were waiting to leave the stadium, much later that evening, Peter wasn’t up to anything at all – at least anything Thomas could figure out. Nor did it seem as if Thomas himself had presumed something he shouldn’t have. Peter had been his usual self all through dinner and the game itself, apparently enjoying the experience despite the chill of the March evening. This wasn’t the first time they’d done something recreational together, even outside the confines of the Folly – they’d slipped away to dinner out often enough, and there had been the occasional movie or Metropolitan Police social event.

Although the last counted as work, really; Peter had started insisting at least one of them show up occasionally. Thomas had avoided such events assiduously once he’d started aging backwards, and it wasn’t any more likely people would stop noticing now he wasn’t aging either way at all – so far as he or Abdul or anyone else could tell. But Peter argued that participating was part of making the Folly a known quantity in the wider Met. Thomas wasn’t sure they _should_ be a known or even knowable quantity, but there were so many more cases these days, and it was no use if they were called in a week or a month late when someone who knew them and what they did finally became involved. He supposed he could attend such things for a few years, perhaps as much as a decade or two, before he had to drop out of sight again and let people forget that the DCI Thomas Nightingale in charge of – what were they these days? – whatever they were by then, wasn’t the son or grandson of the one whose name was on cases from the forties or sixties or nineties, but the same man.

That would _probably_ not be Peter’s problem, but Thomas had a few disquieting observations about Peter he was keeping to himself until time proved him wrong. Or right. He thought the events at Skygarden might have something to do with it – or not. The only thing to do was wait and see.

At any rate, dining alone with Peter was familiar enough, and even attending a sports match didn’t feel wildly out of place. They had known each other far too long to not be comfortable together. It was the combination of the two that was…different. Peter certainly hadn’t taken the tickets intending for them to attend together, he had worked out quickly. A stray inquiry from Peter about the last time he’d been to a match had made it plain.

“Let me see,” Thomas had said. “A long time – not since the sixties, maybe? For a while there I was too old and creaky, and then I didn’t really have anyone to go with, and there’s not much point going alone…and then I was just out of the habit.”

“Oh,” Peter had said, sounding surprised. “I thought – never with Abdul, or anything like that?”

“It’s not really Abdul’s sport of preference,” Thomas explained. “And as far as I know he prefers watching in pubs – says it’s the only attraction they still have for him. So no. Was - that what you meant to suggest?”

“Well – yes. I don’t know,” Peter had confessed, toying awkwardly with his cutlery; they were waiting for their food to arrive. “I grabbed them thinking of you, and if you’d wanted to go with someone else – but then you thought, and I – this is…good. I mean. It’s – nice. Really – well, isn’t it good to have a night off? Assuming we don’t get called in a panic. I heard Sterling burned herself today – isn’t that the first injury we’ve had so far? Not bad.”

What Thomas had sieved out of that assorted babble was that Peter _had_ thought Thomas would use the tickets to go to the game with Abdul, or some other friend that Peter didn’t know of, perhaps, as if Thomas had some madcap social life he was concealing from Peter. He had been both surprised and pleased when Thomas had assumed he meant the pair of them to go. Yet at the same time, he was – embarrassed that he was pleased? Worried Thomas would think he had intended it as a romantic proposition? Worried because he had seen it that way himself, and wanted it to go well? Worried about something else entirely?

He wondered if he was as opaque to Peter as Peter so often was to him.

*

It had been, as Thomas had predicted prior to the match, a drawn-out and low-scoring affair – only one try to either side, and the rest of the points in penalties – but England had eked out a victory, so the crowd’s mood was good enough. They made their way slowly out as the stadium emptied after the final whistle, chatting companionably. Neither of their mobile phones had emitted so much as a peep that Thomas had heard, a circumstance which meant either all at the Folly was well or whatever had gone wrong in their absence had embarrassed the apprentices too much to call them. Anything more serious would have merited a call from someone else. Thomas did hope it was the former. Peter appeared to have set aside whatever nervousness has troubled him at dinner and to be enjoying the evening for what it was.

Which was – to be fair, Thomas still couldn’t quite say what it was, either. Except that it had been pleasant, and he had no wish to make things difficult by construing any further upon it. Peter was, after all, still his subordinate if no longer his apprentice. Although it had been Thomas’s experience that your masters never quite stopped being your masters no matter how old you grew…but that had been in a different time and a different world, when he had come into his own mastery with dozens of others his age, and dozens if not hundreds of older men who had taught him or interacted with him directly as an apprentice. In this new one, when it came to Newtonian wizardry, as _officially_ sanctioned, there was him – and there was Peter. And now, the new apprentices. It was a much smaller world they had between them, with less room or time for hierarchy.

In this new world, too, he could see half a dozen other pairs of men likewise exiting the stadium and be reasonably confident they had attended as couples; it was quite likely some people were making the same assumption about him and Peter. The key difference was that this assumption was rather less likely to lead to either verbal or physical violence upon their persons. Which was yet another great advantage of modern London.

Peter stopped to use the toilets before they left the stadium proper, and came out rearranging his coat and scarf. The scarf itself was blue and bronze, a gift from Abigail meant to comment on Peter’s love of learning. Thomas considered again when, if ever, to reveal to Peter – and Abigail, and perchance a few other members of the Met – that he had read those books several years ago. They had been tolerable for children’s literature, and immensely illuminating in terms of various assumptions made about magic by his more mundane colleagues, as well as some terms thrown around by Peter and others. It was perhaps petty of him to let them continue believing him ignorant of their meanings when they made such references, but so satisfying when he seemingly accidentally responded to what they meant. He should perhaps tell Peter, though. One day soon.

“Damn it,” swore Peter; he’d somehow managed to get his scarf tucked awkwardly into the back of his coat, and was trying to extricate it without success.

“Hold on,” Thomas said, and went to untuck it for him. Peter held obediently still, and it was – nice, as Peter had said in the restaurant, a small still moment of intimacy in the middle of a crowd; he pulled the scarf out and looped it twice around Peter’s neck, a necessary bulwark against the wind. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, smiling at him – not his broad grin, but something smaller and somehow happier.

Of course, that was when someone threw a can at them and yelled a slur Thomas hadn’t heard directed at _himself_ for – oh, a very long time indeed.

Peter’s face darkened, and he glared over Thomas’s shoulder; Thomas stiffened but didn’t turn, because turning told whoever it was that you accepted the insult was being flung at _you_ , whereas pretending to ignore it – or to think someone else was the target – could buy you time.

“Fucking idiots,” Peter muttered and, rather than stepping back as Thomas expected, tucked his arm through Thomas’s and pulled him decisively towards the stairs. “C’mon. It’s not worth it.”

Thomas was too surprised to pull away, even though walking arm-in-arm was likely to provoke whoever had done the yelling and throwing. “Do you actually think I’d get involved in a _fight_ -“

“Well, no,” said Peter, in a way that meant _well, quite possibly_ , “but _they_ were looking for one. Oh, hey, here we are.” As they came onto the next level he dropped Thomas’s arm to stride over to a bored-looking constable in a Metvest, who was eyeing the passing crowds. Peter had a short but emphatic conversation with him, which involved a lot of hand gestures indicating back the way they’d come. Thomas wondered if his institutional weight was needed, but the look he was getting from the constable seemed to indicate it would be more intimidating than helpful, so he let Peter do the work.

“Just in time,” he said as Peter came back; the sounds of a scuffle were audible in the stairwell. The constable was heading towards it, though.

“Looks like it,” Peter said, apparently somewhat pacified. He didn’t take Thomas’s arm again, but he kept close as they headed down again, close enough to brush against him occasionally in the push of the crowd. “Those idiots just wanted to start something; pretty pathetic, really. It wasn’t even an _insult_. I’ve had worse from schoolkids. Some of Abigail’s mates, for starters.”

“Wasn’t it?” Thomas couldn’t help asking.

Peter shrugged. “Did they mean it that way? Yeah, of course. But it’s all about the tone, isn’t it. They could have said just about anything. I mean – _literally,_ it’s not an insult. Then again most of those things aren’t, literally speaking, unless you’re a particular sort of wanker.”

“You didn’t seem very comfortable,” Thomas noted. The prickling feeling between his own shoulderblades was draining slowly, but it hadn’t gone yet.

“Well, yeah, because -” Peter waved a hand, as if grasping for words. “Because they were _trying to start a fight_. I mean – what, you think I’d be _insulted_ if someone thought we were – you know – are you serious?” He waved his hand again, this time up and down in a way that took in Thomas’s person. “Because no. I just – no.”

“Ah,” was all Thomas managed, before Peter plunged on. “It’s like – oh, no, some drunk idiots at a rugby match disapprove of me being lucky enough to attend it in the company of an extremely good-looking and well-dressed guy. How _ever_ will I cope?”

At this point Thomas didn’t need to say anything, if he could have thought of anything to say. The expression on Peter’s face was speaking enough all on its own, as he mentally reviewed that particular walk over the nearest verbal cliff.

They’d nearly made it all the way back to the Jag before Peter said, very quietly, “I…don’t suppose I can persuade you to forget the last two minutes of conversation?”

“I don’t believe either of us has said anything in the last two minutes,” Thomas replied lightly, feeling in his coat pocket for the keys.

Peter made a frustrated noise. “Just – look – I don’t want you to hold this over me for however long you feel like.”

“Do you really think I’m in the habit of holding things over you?” Thomas asked with a frown, because _he_ certainly didn’t think he was.

Peter gave him a dirty look. “You’re still bringing up the exploding thing, and I haven’t made anything explode for _years_.” He paused. “At _least_ a year.” He paused again. “Not _accidentally_ , anyway. That thing in Greenwich was _on purpose_. Which you know, because I told you I was going to do it before I did it.”

It was really very hard at this point not to smile. Thomas made some business of unlocking the Jag and getting inside, so as not to be caught doing so. “Don’t worry, Peter. I’m not in the business of holding sincerely-given compliments over your head.”

“Oh, um, good, that’s – good,” Peter said, and spent the entire drive home in a cloud of almost perceptible confusion, glancing at Thomas every so often but saying nothing. He didn’t even bother pretending to check his mobile phone. It was a comfortable sort of confusion, though, so Thomas let it lie.

*

When they got back to the Folly, it was quite late. Thomas turned off the Jag, but instead of getting out, they both sat there. He didn’t want to just walk in and go to bed with this unfinished – they lived in the same house, ate the same meals, did the same work; there was no way for this to not be awkward, if unresolved.

“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Peter began, surprising him, “but did this sort of turn into a date?”

“Correct me if _I’m_ wrong, but it sort of started out as one.”

Peter didn’t blush as visibly as Thomas did, but there was a certain defiant set to his jaw that said much the same thing if you looked for it, in concert with the tips of his ears reddening. “Yeah, but which one of us is responsible for that? Because it’s not me.”

That was…probably fair. “Peter, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t – I…don’t know what I meant.”

 _Oh, but you did,_ whispered a voice in his head. _You knew exactly._

“Yeah, but you _did_.” Peter squared his shoulders. “And I did as well, because I – I wanted to.” His voice wavered, then firmed. “And really – I don’t think this _does_ qualify as a date yet. We’re short on two or three requirements.”

They’d both been more or less staring at the dashboard during this conversation, with the occasional glance sideways; now Peter was looking directly at him, and Thomas turned to meet his gaze. “And what requirements are those?”

“Firstly – did you, uh, did you have a good time?”

Thomas nodded, felt his lips beginning to curve. “I did. And you?”

Peter smiled back, with a hint of his usual bravado. “Yes. Even when I was making an idiot of myself and being yelled at by strangers. Well – maybe not the second bit.”

“So. Secondly…” Thomas thought about it. “Would you – would you like to go out again sometime?”

Peter’s smile was turning into a grin. “Next week? Assuming, you know, a lack of pressing emergencies.”

“Granted, yes.”

“Then yeah. Yeah. I’d like that.”

Thomas was about to ask what the third condition was that made this a ‘date’ in the modern parlance, but instead he met Peter halfway; after all, it wasn’t difficult to work out.

It was brief, as kisses went, and not terribly comfortable, with the gearshift in the way, but Peter still managed to put his whole body into it, placing his hand on top of Thomas’s and twining their fingers. When Thomas pressed in Peter’s mouth opened under his for a beautiful second, and Thomas let himself _want_ in a way he had carefully kept at bay for – a little while now.

But it was Peter who pulled back, though he didn’t move his hand, and grinned that broad, lovely grin of his. “Oh, no. This is a _first_ date.”

“And what, there’s a _schedule_?” said Thomas with not a little frustration.

“Depends,” Peter said innocently. “On whether we feel like moving it up.” His expression sobered a little. “But, on the whole, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have some time to think.”

Under the circumstances, that was quite true. Whatever both of them felt about this, it wasn’t – and might not ever be – a straightforward relationship to pursue. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to let Peter think he was entirely in control of this. Thomas turned his hand over, let his fingertips drift along the palm of Peter’s hand, up his wrist to where the cuff of his winter jacket hung. “ _Some_ time. Certainly.”

Peter’s face cycled through surprise, satisfaction, lust, and just a touch of caution. Which was pretty well the effect Thomas had intended. “Okay, then.”

“Very well,” Thomas echoed back. He probably would have spent the rest of the evening feeling simultaneously smug, nervous, and frustrated if, upon their entrance to the Folly, they hadn’t been confronted with a frazzled-looking Matthew. Molly glided behind him, and her expression was _distinctly_ unimpressed.

“Oh, thank god, you’re back,” Matthew said, running a hand through his dark hair. The hand Thomas noticed, was dark with – was that soot? “Uh, sarge, you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Shit,” Peter said, and pulled it out; apparently he hadn’t turned it off yet, which was unusual. Thomas had seen him flick it off as they entered the doors of the main part of the Folly hundreds of times, as natural as breathing. Or perhaps he’d been a bit distracted. “Must have missed it over the crowd. What’s happened?”

“The important thing is, the fire is definitely out,” Matthew said in a very careful voice. Behind him, Molly nodded and rolled her eyes; it couldn’t be anything _too_ serious, then.

“No thanks to _you_ ,” Abigail said, appearing in the corridor. “Where the h- um, where were you, anyway, Peter, sir?”

“Rugby,” Thomas said briefly. “I think I’d better see this fire. Or former fire.”

Molly, apparently satisfied all was now under control, glided back towards her kitchen. Matthew looked gloomy, but led on regardless; he was a tough lad. All of them were. _Tough and clever_ , he’d told Postmartin once, before Peter had ever stumbled into his life, that was what he’d need in an apprentice. Peter had done an excellent job applying the same criteria with this new lot, though he’d never said those words aloud to Thomas.

“But I thought you had a date or something,” Abigail was saying to Peter behind them.

“I didn’t say that,” Peter said suspiciously. If Abigail was paying attention, Thomas thought, the really suspicious thing was that he hadn’t said _no._

“Yeah, but look at you, in your nice coat and everything.”

“What, precisely, was the _cause_ of this fire?” Thomas asked.

“I think it was one of the lamps,” Matthew said, much to Thomas’s surprise. He’d expected nothing but magic. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the circuits need replacing. I was in the library, when I heard Annie…”

Thomas tried to pay attention, but his mind was more on the conversation behind them.

“Well, you know, can’t let the side down when I’m out and about with DCI I Have A TARDIS Full Of Suits,” Peter was saying. That was one reference, at least, Thomas understood by now – and it was a ridiculous exaggeration. “Besides, when do I ever get time for dates, between work and you lot setting things on fire?”

“Fine,” Abigail said, “was it a good night out at least? Since you’re apparently at the sad point in your life where your idea of a good night out is one with our governor?”

“…and we’re going to need a new fire extinguisher but otherwise it’s not that bad,” Matthew finished.

“Easy enough to arrange,” Thomas told him. “And, yes, the circuitry probably is getting on…the trick is getting someone in here to attend to it.”

“Yeah,” Peter was saying behind him. “Yeah, it was nice. Relaxing. Nothing getting _set on fire_.”

“Relaxing?” spluttered Abigail.

“What’s the matter with that?” Peter asked, sounding genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I think we don’t have a lot of choice about it,” Matthew said. “Uh, sir – is something funny?”

Thomas realised that, despite everything, he was smiling.


End file.
